Weakling
by GraceVictoria
Summary: Johanna Mason throughout her first time in the Hunger Games
1. The Morning Of

**Author's Notes: **This is my first ever fanfiction, so please cut me some slack in the reviews! This is the starting of my attempt towards Johanna and her games... hope it isnt horrible:)

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Johanna's Games: Morning of the Reaping 

The blustery wind chills my skin as I hurry navigating through the currently deserted streets near the poorer houses in District 7, where I live. Much like my mood, the sky is gray and dismal. It is difficult to realize it is mid-spring and that summer is well on its way. The weather seems to be depressed and anxious, just like any inhabitant of any of the twelve districts.

A terrible gut-wrenching throb immerses from the pit of my stomach as I pass all houses and cabins alike. This will be someone's last night living in the security of their house. Any one of the people sleeping soundly in their homes could be swept away from their friends and family, never to return.

Despair washes over me. There is nothing I can do to stop this absurdity. There is nothing I can do to stop their feeble cries for help, nothing aside from causing myself the same anguish they are doomed to. I could never be brave enough to do that. _Typical._ Everyone wants to change the world, but no one wants to die.

My emotions ranged from miserably dismal, to pity, to despair, to anger all within minutes; not that I'm surprised. Mood swings were simply expected on Reaping Day.

In attempt to escape my worried thoughts, I push everything from my head. Nothing penetrates my blank state of mind as I draw nearer and nearer to my destination, the remote edge of the District seven's smallest forest, the one in which I work. Only today I am not working, it's a poor excuse for a holiday today. Today I'm here to meet my best friends, Laurel and Scout, for our now annual pre-reaping meetings.

The outskirts are strangely soothing amidst the chaos now returning to my head. This pre-reaping ritual began as an attempt to calm the inevitable nerves and stress that is associated with Games. Although no one would like to admit, all it does is the exact opposite; especially since the only topic we discuss seems to be the Games. I have considered many times that the only reason we still subject ourselves to the torture of these meetings is in case any of us are unlucky enough to be chosen as tribute. Subconsciously, this has to be the reasoning.

As soon as I plunge into the densely wooded area in which I feel accustomed, I notice Laurel and Scout nearby waiting for me. This year's meeting appears to be no different from the ones in previous years. Once the silence between us is broken, our emotions pour out into a jumbled mess. Being as close as we are –we are practically each other's family- it takes no time for the facades of normalness to crumble.

Laurel's pure, hazel eyes are unnaturally submerged in emotions similar to the ones I contained earlier, and sadly, still contained. She practically sobs out reminders about this being her sister's first year entering the reaping. Quite a big fit over one slip within the other thousands of unfortunate teenagers' names. Her fit painfully reminds me of my unfortunate twelve entries; I cannot rid myself of a worried panic. Nonetheless, I still comfort her. She needs my reassurance, not my presently bottled anger.

In attempt to rid myself of any terror, I switch the topic to the first thought that enters my head: what would each of our strategies be if we entered the games. _Wow, great subject change. Really smooth, Johanna. _As I continue contemplating how poor of a move I just made, Scout effortlessly answers my poorly-thought-out question.

"I would act completely useless. No brain. No guts. No skills. I wouldn't be a target and others would leave me alone, giving me the element of surprise."

Not a bad idea. Leave it to Scout to come up with a genius plan for survival, even if it would only work for the first few days. It would work after all, right?

"I wouldn't make it past the first day," retorts Laurel. "That plan couldn't would for me. I wouldn't just be pretending not to have skills, I'd actually have none."

A worried glance must appear from my attempted stone-faced look, because Laurel winces into an obvious silence. Another smart move on my part.

"What would you do, Johanna?" _Thank you for the save, Scout. I owe you, yet again. How could I survive without you? _

In effort to not plunge this conversation back into oblivion, I reply somewhat emotionlessly, "I like your idea. Only instead of being useless, I think I would act scared out of my mind, a weakling. Wouldn't have to do much acting, you know."

Now it's my turn for a round of worried glances. How come not even one educated comment has come out of me all morning? It has to be the nerves, and hopefully, they'll pass soon. _Who am I kidding? It's __Reaping Day,__ the nerves surely won't pass for a long time from now. Better get used to keeping my mouth shut. _

Apparently I am not the only one feeling poor currently, because all of us awkwardly stand at the same time. All making some excuse for leaving what has to be our worst meeting ever. We can reconvene later, after the Reaping is over with.

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**More notes from the author: **these all seem so much longer when I'm writing them than when I go back and re-read them... Anyways, thoughts on the chapter?

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed my story, and a special thanks to EStrunk for all her help and constant encouragement:)


	2. Strategy for Survival

**Disclaimer: **sadly, I do not own the Hunger Games

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Johanna's Games: Strategy for Survival 

The clouds calmly sprinkle rain as I sprint back towards home. I overstayed my time in the woods and my mother will be anxious when I return, like she always is. I can picture her face, the one so similar in appearance to mine, plastered with worry and panic. She will probably scold me for making such a huge mess of myself from spending so much time in the woods this morning. She still treats me like the young child my features make me seem. She worries about me too much, but I know her intentions are good. She worries about me simply because the world we live in is not kind, nor merciful. She worries about me simply because I am all she has.

I try not to be callous about my mother; she is one of the only things I truly care for. It is just her and me in our little family. My entire life I have been raised without a father. Only recently did my mom enlighten me on why it's been like this. When she was only sixteen, the same age as I am now, she became pregnant with me. One would think people would take pity on a pregnant teenager, but being with child out of wedlock was one of the most disgraceful acts anyone can do. My grandparents tried to look beyond that and support her anyways, for the little time they could. Things were financially tight as it was for them, and adding a child into the equation things just couldn't add up. Eventually my mom was on her own raising me.

Raising a child in Panem is a difficult job, especially being barely seventeen. She tried her best though, yet for the longest time we had no money; we could barely afford to eat. In attempt to make life easier on us both, I have spent the last eight years working with the lumberjacks. Its hard work, but money is money and that helps feed and support my mother and I. I do not resent the work. In fact, I have actually grown to like it. The swing of an axe and the rhythmic art of chopping trees calms me.

These thoughts jumble inside my head as my legs begin autopilot. They steer me through the woodland I am proud to claim as my district. I belong here in the wooded forests.

I have overheard people from elsewhere call District 7 a horrible place to live, having very little sunshine and the constant rain. But here, in District Seven, this is where I truly belong. The smell of cedar sap, the deep greens from nature all year long provided by evergreens, the smoothing cleanses rain brings to my sanity; these were all things I am accustomed to. I couldn't live anywhere else—not that I have a chance to anyways.

I can feel the angst rising in the atmosphere. It must be nearing time now. I continue hurrying towards the tiny cabin I consider my house. It doesn't seem like much, but just like my district, it is my home and I seem to belong here.

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Exhaling the breath I had unknowingly held captive, reluctantly I change into my finest outfit. The long sleeve pale pink dress practically swallows me. It once belonged to my neighbor's daughter, and after she was reaped years ago, they had given it to me. The dress reminded my neighbors of their lost daughter, and they couldn't stand the memories associated with the fabric I now wore. I, myself, find the thought that only a few years ago our now deceased district tribute wore this very same dress very distressing. But dresses are so expensive, and money is much better spent on luxuries such as food.

I ingest my resentment and unenthusiastically observe myself in my mother's small mirror. I have to admit, the dress was beautiful, and its beauty was seeping into my pores. The dress enhanced my petite structure. It only extenuated my childlike features; which consequently made me, even more than normal, appear years younger than I truly am –not necessarily a bad thing, but definitely not a good thing on Reaping Day. The only aspect in my attire that hinted towards my real age, beside the pain well hidden within my deep puppy like eyes, was my mid-back length hair rushing over my chest and back in swooning waves. If it weren't for the occasion, I may have actually enjoyed this moment.

Any faint trace of admiration from that instant vanished as I returned to the entirety of the situation. It was Reaping Day. My name had a likelihood of being chosen from the glass bowl. If I was chosen, I would have to return, for my mother, for Scout, for Laurel, for myself. Not returning wasn't an option. Losing was not an option- Losing was a death sentence; _the entire Games were a death sentence.

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I position myself beside Laurel within the sixteen's grouping. The ceremony was about to commence. I halfheartedly listened to our mayor's words as he read the same story as he had years and years before. The only motivation I had for listening was a feeble attempt to prolong the calling of someone's name- but no matter how long you delay death, it will eventually come.

My efforts to extend the breathing of an unknown person in this crowd were crushed when our district's escort, Melody Exel, began her peppy-Reaping-Day-garbage. I ignored her; she was the image of everything wrong within the system, although she probably had little to actually do with what was truly wrong, but no one can help but be resentful towards anyone who finds entertainment from the Games. I focused on her off-putting apparel rather than on the name she was calling. Her useless noise is drowned out by my thoughts when a nudge thrusts me back into my horrible reality. Nothing makes sense as my body shuts off. The only thought swirling in my once full head is: that's my name she called.

By calling my name, Melody caused an avalanche inside me that rapidly swallowed me whole. Breathing seems to be a difficult task; anything else is not even comprehensible. I was just reaped. My mother's worst nightmare just came true. My own worst nightmare just did too. I am powerless to the desperate fear swelling inside my chest. Hot tears make an appearance in my brown eyes.

_Stay Calm. Don't seem weak; people at the Capitol want a warrior, not a weakling. _

Moments from earlier begin replaying inside my mess of a brain _"'I would act scared out of my mind, a weakling. Wouldn't have to do much acting, you know.'" _I stopped suppressing all emotions at the recall of my own words. I let the pain immerge in the form of tears.

In the short time it took to arrive by Melody, I became a walking mess. Being nearly a foot shorter than the Capitol escort helped me seem even more useless than I appeared, but it cannot compete with how useless and helpless I feel inside right now. A wail escaped my throat when I noticed even the bubbly Capitol woman felt pity for me. My pleading eyes captured her pity, and possibly others from the Capitol with a conscience, but pity wasn't enough. Pity wouldn't save me from the Games. Pity wouldn't ensure my life. Pity wouldn't bring me back to Laurel, to Scout, and to my mom. Pity would bring me nothing but despair. Pity would only bring me a false sense of security. If my plan for survival is to be effective, I will have to secretly be ruthless as well as outwardly weak.


	3. Meet The Doomed

**Author's Notes: **Please remember to review. It means a lot to me:)

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Johanna: Meet The Doomed

I rouse from my dream in a delirious haze. Today's events fresh in my haunting nightmare. My waking mind is numb, but my body is stiff and worn from earlier hours of semi-forced crying and wailing. Tears and emotions poured out of me with such force that I am not surprised by the realization I passed out cold the second my body fell against the luxurious train bed.

Once I awoke, time seemed to escape me as I sat motionless, thinking. Had it not even been a full day since I was reaped? Had it not even been twelve hours ago, that I had been fretting in the forest with my best friends over possibly been chosen? Less than twelve hours ago I had been safe and surrounded by people who loved me. Now I was alone on the train that was chugging me along full throttle towards my demise.

Just like Scout and Laurel had tried to soothe my fears before the Reaping, they also tried to console me at District Seven's Justice Building. Both Laurel and Scout knew I could fend for myself and was not useless like I was leading on. Luckily they realized that weakling was my angle for survival, just like I could have chosen to act cunning or sexy or arrogant; they knew being weak was just apart of a show. Tears I had not forced spilled out of my eyes when I had to say goodbye to them. Not being my usual self caused a strain on our goodbyes, but love was not spread thin between the three of us. My mom, on the other hand, had not known that I would be pretending to be weak and powerless. She hugged me tightly and tried to calm me with her soft words, which in actuality only made me approach a mental hysteria. My mother had the brains to realized a crybaby could never survive the Games; she had no hope for her darling daughter to return home. If I had yet been determined to return home, this thought embedded no other choice for me. I had to return home for my mother, for I had been all she's had for the past sixteen years of her life, and now she was sure she was going to lose me to the monster known as the Games.

Along with the replay of my last goodbyes, I was reminded of my moment of frozen fear from only hours earlier; the moment almost directly after I was reaped. Melody refused to accept her pity towards me. In attempt to revive her bubbly self, she insisted on calling the male tribute far more quickly than years previous. On screen I had managed a few more captured faux-lunacy moments before I possessed a definite reason for any. My wails extinguished into a hushed gasp as a boulder like man approached the stage. He hadn't even flinched when his name, Halsey, was called. I could successfully classified my opponent as Career material simply by his brute size. His cold, stone face matched his deep black eyes. He was dangerous, and anyone could see it. His immensity and brutally were only magnified by my opposing presence. Only seconds after shaking hands with the monstrous eighteen year old I regained a sense of delirium. In vain, I attempted to escape the stage and the crowd, but of course running was just a ploy for the cameras; no matter how much I want to, there would be no possible way to escape being a tribute.

I returned to the present time of being on the train when Melody called me to dinner. Before rejoining the others, I took a moment to regather myself-dishinge myself, really. Once the twinkle of tears was apparent in my eyes, I made my way to dinner. I reluctantly took the open seat next to my aging mentor, Alder. He didn't even attempt masking his disgust for having to mentor a weak crybaby.

With much strength I resisted the urge to shovel every piece of food from the table into my mouth. I acted sullen and weak, too weak to even contemplate eating. Halsey, my fellow tribute, did nothing to protest his stomach as he piled his plate full with decadent food upon colorful soups upon rich mixtures. Everything looked perfect, and I could hear my stomach crying out to me in contempt towards my willpower to resist eating.

Somehow, I managed to act as if even the idea of food would trigger a land mine. I sat on the verge of tears the entire meal until Alder practically force fed me some food as he exclaimed in an echoing voice that I had to eat or else I wouldn't have any strength for the games-_like he even thought I had a chance to begin with._ It was excruciating trying to keep the look of pleasure the food gave me off my face, but I had to stay strong, even during indifferent moments like meal time, if I wanted to return home; which I promised myself I would. When saying goodbyes I had never bothered to make the promise to return, in case I wasn't able to keep it-_-which sadly was more than likely true._ My friends and family would find no comfort in empty promises, anyway. If I wanted to survive these monstrous Games, nobody, including Halsey or my mentors, could know I wasn't nearly as weak as I lead on to be.

My head protested me stopping eating, but my stomach was overpowering; it can't contain another ounce of food. In my entire sixteen years of living I have never came close to an endorphin raising feeling like this: more than full, stuffed. I have eaten more tonight than I ate the entire month before the Reaping.

By the time I finished gorging myself with delicate foods, the recap had just begun to replay every district's Reaping. I hurriedly made my way towards the screen. I sat down in an empty chair just as a young blonde mounted onto District 1's stage. She is probably the same age as me, but she is much taller and more muscular than myself. Still, she isn't up to Career par. Someone was surely going to take her place; that was just as inevitable as the season's change.

I sit in paralyzing shock as the events continue rolling along on the large television screen. No one is there to take the blonde girl's place. No one is there to remove her from the Games. No one is there to steal her glory of participating. The blonde girl smiled sadly at the past Victors of District One when she realized no one was taking her place.

My shock doesn't quit then, though; it continues surging through me as no one volunteers to replace her District partner either. Granted, he is decently sized and plenty capable to win on his own, but I am still taken back when not a single teen in District 1 volunteers.

A reoccurring jolt rushes through my veins as I listen, through the dead-silence in our train room, to the prerecorded events from Capitol's favorite District, Two. Yet again no one voluntarily offers to join the Games.

As the recap's play begins to complete, I cannot hope but feel hopeful inside. The Careers are no where near their usual burley structor or express themselves through their usual lethal atmosphere. In addition, I find no threat amongst the other tributes, apart from Halsey and the District Ten male tribute. I strongly feel they are the only obstacle standing between me and a train returning home.

I find reassurance in my own dazzling recap spotlight. I appear more weak and sullen than even the twelve year old girl from Six, and believe me, she was a mess. I was delirious by the end of the Reaping, and my eyes glistens with tears and my face is stained and blotchy from crying as I boarded the train. That moment sealed the deal for my worthlessness; even I believed my act was sincere_-though I clearly know its not._

The sight of a young girl from the final district is replaced by a group of blue fish-like people. They begin blabbering on about their disappointment of this years tributes. The announcers are still hopeful for a turnaround once the tributes have time at the training center, but they predicting a boring Hunger Games this year. Even if I have to personally raise Hell inside myself, I am going to be sure their prediction will be dead wrong.


	4. Waking Dream

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry this chapter is really short; I felt it didn't fit within the next chapter, but it was still necessary.

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Johanna: Waking Dream

Another sleepless night is spent perilously wandering my subconscious. I rest within an awoken dream that I know all too well. The place where fantasy fuses with reality, where time refuses to pass as my body refuses to slumber.

Haunting cries echo within my head as I recall fateful horrors of past Games. Images crowded amongst my thoughts swirl. Posed and planned floods hungrily engulfing helpless life after life, inhuman mutations ruthlessly detaching limbs apart from their bodies, and all imaginable heartless ways a child could be mercilessly slaughtered resurfaced in my thoughts as a jumbled mess. So many lives have been affected. So many families have been torn apart. So many dreams have been trampled. So many futures have been abandoned, and for what? For hopes to abolish all thoughts of rising against this cruelty before the thoughts begin? To remind the Districts that we're inferior to the Capitol's control? The audacity of it all!

A fever inducing rage washes over me. The anger building up sends shivers throughout my skin. Who has the right to force twenty-four children into an arena to ploy and plot vengeance against each other? Who has the right to force children to kill or be killed, all in hopes to return to a life they deserve and are entitled to on their own?

I hold tightly onto the new fire burning inside me. When I return as crowned Victor, I will use my flames to ignite and fuel the even larger wildfire stirring within the all the Districts.

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**Review? **


	5. Preparations

**Author's Note: **Sorry its taken so long for me to put this chapter up; I've been having internet troubles...

Anyway, hope you like it, and please review:)

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Time has always seemed so consistent to me. The time agreed with the clock; who, in turn, agreed with the sun; who obviously was in cahoots with the moon. It doesn't seem that way anymore; time doesn't seem like a constant any longer.

Months have fluttered and flown past inside my head, yet in reality it has only been two fateful days since my reaping. Two fateful days that I have spent in solitude: no one to confide in, no one to act sane or be myself around. Only weak, powerless Johanna has been seen drifting though this train, for she is the only one who feels safe inside this Capitol luxury. Regular Johanna is suffocated and alone, no longer allowed to roam inside the unpredictable, unreliable unknown.

No one has seemed to miss or even acknowledge my existence this entire trip, which is fine by my standards; I do not need their prying noses pretending to be concerned with my well being. I do not need their glances of pity aimed towards me- I will receive enough of those at the Capitol. All I need is to be back in the comfort of home.

Despite the distance of mileage separating me and District 7, I am still there in my over imaginative head, and these woken day dreams are more real than anything within this fake utopia where I'll be arriving shortly. Just like at home, I can still feel the soft drizzle of spring rain on my face. I can still smell the strong sap of cedars and Douglas firs, and I can still hear the melancholy sawing of tree after tree. My head and heart are back home with those who love me, as my body is arriving where nobody believes I will endure to the end of the week, where they will watch my death with eager anticipation.

Alder, my mentor, routinely informs me the occurring events of today and warns me to do as my stylist wants, then leaves me to myself. I do nothing but stare as my face reddens with tears. One of the days I have been dreading has finally arrived; I am truly in the Capitol now.

Tears flow easily as I maneuver my way through the crowd of cameras. They pay little attention to the wailing, crybaby with no chance of survival , but all cameras are pointed towards my district partner. Everyone wants to see Halsey, an actual contestant in these games, make his way out of the train and into the excessively colorful Capitol. I am ignored by the pestering crews of cameramen, for the audience only wants to see champions and bloodshed.

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By the time preparations for the chariot ride are underway, I am already mentally exhausted. Words are thrown around at non-humanly speeds towards no one in particular, and await no reply either to continue. I am pleasantly surprised when the never silent team leaves the room I remain in. Just the same, I am pleased when I catch glimpse of my stylist.

She is aged, but not old. Altered, but not fake. Worn, but not destroyed. I can tell she has worked as a stylist for many Games by the looks of her. She seems to see the Hunger Games differently than other Capitol citizens. She sees less of the beauty and more of the horror they contain. The effects of getting to personally know one tribute every year, only to watch them die soon after, has taken a toll on her, and it's evident within her every move. I decide, right at that realization, there is some good inside the horribly cruel Capitol I was born despising. I decide not to hate Rayna, my stylist.

Even though I do not loathe Rayna, I do, however, hate her lack of creativity for my costume. I can recall a past game she was stylist of, possibly her first year, potential had glowed through her skin. Her designs were the talk of the ceremonies and no one could get enough of Rayna, but that had been many years ago, before the weight of the Games had gotten to her.

This year, she had no creative design to represent District 7. Instead, I would resemble a tree: a plain, boring oak tree, which ironically doesn't even flourish well in my District. The costume was itchy and drowned my helplessly inside the wide trunk.

As Rayna looked over her final project, concerning impression of excitement flashes inside her trampled and beaten purple eyes. She recalls my prep-team and they discuss my fate with equally discouraging thrilled looks flashing across their altered faces. Sure enough, they have cooked up an awful scheme I am forced to play along with.

My eyes widen twice their normal size as the inches of hair falls lifeless onto the ground. I know survival should be my first and only concern, but my hair has been the one thing that hasn't changed within these past few days. Every other belonging and possession have been unfairly ripped from my grasp: my mother, my friends, my home, my District, my woods, my body hair, my sense of security, and possibly even my life. Now even my flowing brown locks will just be added to the list of things unjustly torn from my life.

At first I am too afraid to look at myself in to mirror, in fear of who I will see staring back at me, for under no circumstance will I not see the same girl from a few days ago gazing back at me. That was inevitable regardless of the haircut. Following numerous oohs and ahhs and after several thin leaved twigs are woven through my new short hair, I glance at the stranger in the mirror. Her bulging brown eyes capture my stare and captivate my heart.

_Maybe I am still the same girl I was before the Reaping. Maybe these Games haven't changes me so far. Maybe I still have a chance of returning home to fuel talk of rebellion. Hell, maybe I'll be lucky enough just to return home. _


End file.
